


first day of my life

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gen, Interior Decorating, Married Life, Moving In Together, Pregnancy, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, they fight like an old married couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alys and Jon's first five days in their new apartment, and their baby's first day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	first day of my life

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea how i managed to brew an almost 4K long fic within this amount of time uh sorry? 
> 
> title from First Day of My Life by Bright Eyes (which is basically the theme song for this fic so go look it up :3)

** Day 1. **

Rain patters on the window as Alys sits cross-legged on the inflatable mattress, her hands in her lap. The radio is fuzzy, and the piano sounds tinny and faraway. She’s not sure _why_ she’s listening to the classical music station, but it must have been the first thing when she turned the radio on. Jon always listens to it and tries to play along on his piano or violin or any of the other dozen instruments he owns. She’s still doubtful that his grand piano will fit in the apartment- much less fit through the _door_ -, but she doesn’t dare tell him that to his face. He would get insulted that she doesn’t believe in _his baby_ , and really, she should be more offended by that than she is.

The apartment is spacious, more than enough room for the two of them. But they have spoken of children, and the flat will one day be the perfect size. The furniture is sparse- the bed, couch and most of the kitchen appliances are coming in late- and the walls are a bright white that makes her eyes hurt. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the catalogue clippings and paint samples that hang from the bulletin board in the kitchen. With some redecorating and personalizing, this place will soon feel like home.

The key in the lock turns with a _click_ , and Jon pushes open the door. Alys looks at him from over her shoulder, clutching her pillow to her chest. His hair is soaked, limp strands sticking to the sides of his face and drops of water trickling down the curve of his neck. He kicks the door shut behind him and toes off his boots. The Chinese food in his arms smells wonderful and she feels like she hasn’t eaten in days.

“The one down the road was closed,” Jon explains with a huff as he plops himself down next to her, “so I had to go _all_ the way across town to PF Chang’s.” He presses the tip of his finger to her nose, where she scrunches her face in distaste. “Just for _you_.” A couple drops of water splash her as he turns to pull the takeout boxes out of the plastic bag. He hands one to her, along with a pair of chopsticks.

“It’s just like college all over again,” she sighs, fondly remembering studying until the early hours in the morning and forgetting to eat, and by that time it was far too late to cook anything, so scrounging around the dorm for any and all change to buy some fast food and trying to hitch a lift to the nearest restaurant had become a habit of hers.

“I don’t want to relive my college years, thank you very much.” Too often had Jon been a victim of Theon Greyjoy’s ruthless pranks, and although they were harmless, they were never in the best of taste. Alys’ personal favourite was when Theon added green dye to Jon’s shampoo. Theon filmed Jon’s reaction and posted it on YouTube. Three years later, and Jon will still get recognized as the ‘walking broccoli floret’.

Alys climbs into his lap after supper and wraps her arms around his chest, nuzzling his neck. He strokes her hair and hums along to the song playing on the radio, one that Alys recognizes as Chopin’s Nocturne. The rain pounds incessantly against the window, but it is calming to her. The mattress is uncomfortable and it’s too cold for her liking, though Jon’s warmth helps. He keeps her close and quietly sings in her ear, and as she yawns and begins to doze off, he lies them down and pulls the covers over them.

He kisses her on the temple, says goodnight, tells her he loves her, like he always does. She has just enough time to mumble it back, not even sure if he hears her, before she falls sound asleep.  

* * *

 

** Day 2. **

They roll the boxspring around the room, trying to find the best spot. It would be much easier if Alys didn’t change her mind all the time. “It’s all about _feng shui_ ,” she explains matter-of-factly. Jon deeply regrets paying for her yoga class. “No, not _there_! Feet facing the door means _death_!”

They eventually agree on a spot against the wall, across from a window. The original spot they put it in, he realizes with a deep sigh. The mattress is carefully placed on the boxspring, and Jon makes his wife promise that they won’t move the bed around again. “Too weak for that now?” she jokes, taking bedsheets out of the closet. “Or you just don’t want to make your wife happy?” She pouts and bats her eyelashes, feigning innocence.

“Who was the one who went all the way to PF Chang’s for you?” That shuts her up, though she musters a sharp glare.

The phone rings and Jon leaves Alys to finish making the bed. He dashes to the living room and tries not to sound breathless when he picks it up. It’s just Aunt Catelyn, wondering how everything is going. “It’s fine… _we’re_ fine… No, Robb doesn’t need to come and help out… No, we’re _not_ hiring a U-Haul…”

Squeaking and bouncing drowns out Catelyn’s bombardment of questions. He heads back to the bedroom, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder. Alys grins at him from where she jumps on the bed, the top of her head almost touching the ceiling. Her shoes are strewn across the floor, the expensive black ones with the red bottom by _some_ topnotch fashion designer he’d gotten her for her birthday, and she insists on wearing them around the house to break them in. “Cat, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Is everything alright?” He can practically _see_ Cat’s eyes widening with worry.

“…I think so.” He hangs up and places the phone on the dresser, never taking his eyes off his wife. “I missed something, didn’t I?”

“I have to test it,” she replies, sounding short-winded. “What’s the fun in buying a new bed if you can’t try it out first?” She spins around, her flowing skirt fanning out around her.

“Alys, you took a two hour nap on it in the store.”

She sticks her tongue out. “You’re no fun.”

“What if the neighbors hear?”

“I’m testing for that, too.” She grins widely, the type of grin that a five-year-old has when she tries to weasel her way out of trouble. It’s both endearing and exasperating. “Come on, Jon Stark! Where’s your sense of excitement?”

He uncrosses his arms with a sigh and kicks off his shoes. She claps her hands and giggles in delight when he climbs onto the bed. “If the neighbors come knocking on our door, it’s all your fault.” Still, he begins jumping, his lips quirking upwards at the corners. He has the breath knocked out of him when Alys hits his side with a pillow, feathers flying everywhere.

“You know I haven’t had a real sleepover since I was ten?”

He grabs the other pillow and swings at her, though she ducks and hops out of the way. “I’m not doing your nails for you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll do yours.”

He scoops her up in his arms and twirls her around. They laugh until they’re gasping for breath, and they collapse onto the bed. Jon lies on his side, watching his wife as her chest rises and falls. “I think the bed works,” she whispers, a smirk creeping onto her face. She tilts her head to look at him, her eyes sparkling.

He cups her cheek and meets her lips in a soft kiss. She eagerly responds, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him closer. She hooks a leg over his waist, moaning quietly into his mouth. He nuzzles her neck, grinning against her flesh. “Should we test the bed for something else?”

* * *

 

** Day 3. **

She narrows her eyes, hands on her hips, scrutinizing the colour on the wall. High Noon coats a small patch, and she supposes it just looks funny because she’s not used to it yet. She and Jon had argued for a good hour on whether or not it was _cream_ or _beige_. She snorts and shakes her head at the memory. _Men_. They’re so impaired when it comes to the colour scheme.

“What’s the matter now?” he asks, rolling his brush in the paint tray. “Don’t tell me I got the wrong one.” He already had to make two trips to the store to return the cans of Crocus and later Jamaican Dream he’d bought instead. He protested that they all look the same, and no one will care once they’re up on the wall. _Men_.

“No, no, you got the good one.” She bites her bottom lip, deep in thought. “It just doesn’t look… _right_.” She groans and furiously dips her brush in the paint can. “Don’t listen to me. It’s going to look fine.”

Maybe they _should_ have gone with the Crocus.  

“You really should stop having arguments with yourself. It’s not healthy, babe.”

“I just want everything to be perfect!” She makes a frustrated noise and flings the brush at the wall. Paint splatters on the white sheet covering the floor and on Alys’ ratty old sneakers. They’re worn out to the point of falling apart, so she couldn’t care less about ruining them further. Of course, having to throw them out after a temper tantrum a toddler would envy is quite embarrassing.

“You know, I think the paint looks _much_ better on the wall,” Jon deadpans. She looks up and gasps; paint dots his face and neck and stains the plaid shirt she’s always liked on him. “I think it’s a bit too beige for my liking,” he snorts as she wipes his face with a rag.

“It’s _cream_ , you twat.” She smiles and pulls him in for a kiss, an apology of sorts. His hand is on her back, keeping her still. She feels… _cold_ , all of a sudden. She squeals in realization and jumps away from him; her shirt clings to her uncomfortably, paint seeping through the material. “You ass!” Jon only laughs and shrugs.

It’s not long before they’re flinging paint at each other, resorting to using their hands to scoop more up. It will be hell to get out of their clothes and hair, but they can’t be arsed to care right now. She’s eternally grateful that they covered all the sparse furniture in the room. They’re not doing much better than kindergarteners, hurling insults and dirtying the place up as much as possible. Buying your first apartment should show signs of independence and maturity, yet here they are.  

Jon reaches forward and grabs her by the front of the loose, crappy overalls she wears. He cups her cheeks, getting paint all over her skin. She doesn’t care and melts into the kiss, gripping the collar of his shirt. They tumble to the floor, a pile of intertwined limbs, never breaking the kiss. He undresses her slowly, leaving cream coloured handprints behind.

He pulls her hair out of the loose ponytail and traces her jaw line with his thumb as she helps him out of his clothes. He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “I’m gonna have to buy new paint cans,” he says.

She giggles and nuzzles against his hand. “As long as it’s not Crocus or Jamaican Dream.”

* * *

 

** Day 4. **

He rereads the instructions for the ten-thousandth time, scowling. He crumples the paper into a ball and slams it down on the floor. The shelf had started looking out alright, but now it’s just plain wonky. None of the screws fit in right, and it’s completely lopsided. He never felt more ashamed of himself. Bested by a _piece of furniture_.

The phone rings and he jumps, cursing under his breath when he drops the screwdriver on his foot. “Yes?” he grits out, rubbing his toes. He’s curled up into the fetal position on the floor now, staring hatefully at the incomplete shelf. He should just hire someone to build it for him. _No_ , he can’t. He has to finish it himself. It’s a matter of pride.

“Hi, honey,” Alys says softly, in the tone made special for when he is angry. It only makes him angrier, somehow, that she is not here with him. Of course, _someone_ had to buy new paint cans. “How’s everything? Did you finish the shelf yet?” He knows that she is just asking out of politeness. Both of them know that the shelf is nowhere near done.

“It’s getting there,” he replies, giving the bottom of it a kick. Maybe if he glares at it more, it will build itself.

His wife sighs and he knows that she is frowning. “Look, you can put it off until tomorrow. Yeah, that’s a good idea, actually. Just get some sleep tonight, and you’ll have a fresh mind in the morning.” It sounds like a smart idea in retrospect, but as tempting as it is, Jon has to refuse.

“I have to finish it tonight. I _have_ to.”

She sighs again. “I’m coming home now. I have supper. And don’t tell me you’re not eating, or else I’ll force feed you.” She pauses, then adds: “And I’ll throw that goddamn shelf out the window.”

When she steps through the door, Jon has his foot pressed against the shelf and is practically _wrestling_ with it. He tries to twist the screw, needing to get it out before he splits the wood. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth and his eyes are narrowed in concentration. He barely hears Alys drop off the food in the kitchen, and it’s only when she puts a hand on his shoulder that he registers her presence. His cheeks flush red; he must look so stupid.

“Don’t strain yourself, Superman,” she says dryly. “Come eat before it gets cold.”

“Fine.” He takes one last look at the shelf, as if telling it “don’t move anywhere”. He swiftly pecks her on the lips and heads to the kitchen to put pizza in plates for them. It’s only been four days, but he’s already sick of fast food. Thank God the stove, oven and fridge are getting installed tomorrow.

He pokes his head in the living room to ask her what she wants to drink, but his jaw falls to the floor before he can say anything. In the short amount of time he was gone, Alys had managed to fit most of the pieces together. She smoothes out the instructions on the floor and studies them. “How the hell-?” Jon gapes at her incredulously and kneels beside her.

“You know, these things are a _lot_ easier to read when they’re in English.” She waves the paper with a smirk. “You were looking at the wrong side, honey. Unless you’ve forgotten to tell me, you’re not fluent in Dutch, Russian _or_ German.”

He frowns and finds her hand, gently tugging it. “Whatever. The pizza’s getting cold.” He helps her stand up, and he can tell that she’s trying not to laugh. “We’re finishing that goddamn thing tomorrow, I swear.”

* * *

** Day 5. **

Alys just about wipes the grocery store clean. It’s been almost _a week_ without a home cooked meal, and she has never been so eager to cook. She’s planning a huge buffet, and will invite Jon’s family and her family, even though they’ll probably have to squeeze into the apartment. But then she remembers that only two of the rooms are painted and most of their things are still in boxes at Ned and Cat’s home. She’ll have to invite everyone for a housewarming party when everything is in order.

She’s furiously cooking all of Jon’s favourite things by the time her husband comes home from work. He’s wearing the suit she likes, and his hair is slicked back in the way that is always _begging_ for her to muss it up. “What a lovely surprise,” he drawls, leaning over to kiss her. The smell of his aftershave is intoxicating, and his lips are soft and taste of mint, but she is a woman on a mission. This food isn’t going to cook itself.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she says, slipping out of his embrace.

“Starving, actually.” He loosens his tie and hangs his jacket on the back of a chair at the kitchen table. “What’s with all of this?” He gestures to the counters, full of ingredients and cooking utensils and cooling food.

She wipes her hands on her apron, but that only manages to get more flour on her. “It’s a celebration.” She places the finished meals on the table, and there’s barely enough room to accommodate all of the dishes. “I thought since we got our kitchen set up, I would cook.” She opens the oven door and checks the chocolate soufflé for the umpteenth time.

“Is there something else in the oven?” Jon asks hesitantly, taking a couple of steps towards her.

Alys closes the oven door and stands up straight. She gives him a funny look, eyes alight with curiosity. “No, why would there be?”

He clears his throat and in three strides of his long legs, he is close enough that she can count the freckles on his nose, though there really aren’t many. “I meant...you know.” He places his hand on her belly, clutching the material of her apron. “A bun in the oven?”

Realization dawns over her, and she can’t help but laugh. “Oh, Jon, honey, I really don’t think so. I would have known by now.” Wouldn’t she?

He looks a little crestfallen, though he does not relent. “Why else would you be cooking so much? And, to be honest, the combination of your dishes is a little, well... _colourful_.” Now that she looks at all the food she’s prepared, nothing goes very well together. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“There will be plenty of little curly-haired Starks running around here soon enough,” she assures him, pecking his cheek. “And if there _is_ the possibility of a baby soon...” She licks her lips, suddenly nervous; the thought of having a baby is so _real_ now. “It’ll happen when it does. I’ll do a test tomorrow, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t think we're in a rush,” Jon murmurs, kissing her forehead. “Now, let’s not put all this food to waste. We’ll see if you’re still able to cook.” His grin is wicked, and she wants to protest that it’s _only been five days_ , but he looks at her with such fondness that she can’t bring herself to counter his remark. She merely nods and helps him set the table.

* * *

** Day 1. **

The day is dark and rainy, and their electricity has gone out, but Jon couldn’t feel happier. He helps his wife into the apartment, taking slow and careful steps. He keeps a hand on the small of her back, needing to reassure himself that she is here and this is real. Her hair is messy and her eyes are bloodshot, but she has never looked more beautiful to him. The bundle in her arms is silent except for the faint whistling sound whenever she takes a breath in her sleep.

“Hi, baby,” Alys whispers, stroking the small tuft of hair on Lyanna’s head. “Welcome home. I know it’s not much, but I think we’ll do well here. You have your own room and everything.” Lyanna makes a quiet noise in her sleep and subconsciously reaches up for her mother.

Jon takes the soaked trench coat off of Alys’ frame and hangs it up in the hall closet. “Do you want me to get you anything?” he murmurs, wrapping her arms around her waist. He looks down at the baby and his heart swells in his chest. Lyanna is _theirs_ , a living and breathing and _beautiful_ product of his and Alys’ love. He silently vows to protect his two girls now and always, the most wonderful things in his life.

“I think I’m good,” his wife answers, her voice hoarse. “She’s so tiny.”

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s _ours_.”

He kisses his wife on the cheek, breathing in the scent of her. “I love you so much. And I love our baby- can you believe that? _Our_ baby.” He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over saying that.

Lyanna gurgles and yawns, showing off her toothless mouth. She looks up at them with the widest eyes Jon has ever seen. Tentatively, he cups her cheek, abundantly careful with his actions. She’s so fragile; he feels like he could break her with one touch. She wraps her fingers around his thumb and Jon hadn’t thought it was possible to love something- or someone- so quickly.

“It’s Daddy,” Alys explains to the baby. “Say hello.” Lyanna coos wordlessly just as Alys yawns. “I think what we all need is a nice warm bed to sleep in.” Jon nods in agreement, though he doesn’t take his eyes off of Lyanna.

The nursery is plain, but they’ll begin to decorate it now that they know what gender baby they have. There is a crib, though, and Alys gently places their daughter inside. They’ve researched countless times how to properly have a baby lie down, tried it with Sansa’s old toy dolls. Alys does it with ease now, and within moments, Lyanna is asleep once more.

“I don’t think I have ever been more exhausted in my life,” she says, rubbing her eyes. Jon is about to scoop her up to carry to their room, to save her the task of walking, but she slides to the floor. She curls up at one of the legs of the crib, her face slack and smooth with sleep. Chuckling, he sits down next to her and wraps his arm around her shoulders.

“I love you,” he whispers, even though she can’t hear him. Still, she leans into his embrace and begins to snore softly. In his daughter’s nursery, with his wife asleep in his arms, he has never felt more at peace. He closes his eyes and dozes off, a tiny smile on his face.                      


End file.
